


Seven times Natasha visited the Barton farm, and one time she didn't

by NomdePlume1220



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Family, Family Feels, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Male-Female Friendship, Natasha Romanov Backstory, Platonic Relationships, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 17:38:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19480783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NomdePlume1220/pseuds/NomdePlume1220
Summary: A series of oneshots exploring how Natasha Romanoff's relationship with Clint Barton and his family helped her to discover the meaning of family and shape the woman who became the quiet soul of the Avengers. Canon-compliant. NO ENDGAME SPOILERS; there will be in later chapters, but I will give fair warning.





	Seven times Natasha visited the Barton farm, and one time she didn't

DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything that you recognize

There are NO SPOILERS in this part. There will be spoilers eventually, but I will post about those. This chapter is safe even if you have not seen Infinity Wars or Endgame.

Enjoy!

\---------------------------

Spring 2009 — Part 1

\---------------------------

The first time Clint brought her to the farm was after a mission that had gone badly south, fast.

They had been sent by SHIELD to eliminate the head of a human trafficking ring operating in Azerbaijan, outside of Baku. SHIELD's intel had been limited, but Barton and Romanoff had been briefed on the basics: their target was a man called Novruz Hasanoff, a Russian mobster who had made a name for himself in the criminal underworld by kidnapping children in the Caucuses, falsifying new papers, then adopting them out as orphans for hefty fees to desperate couples in the US and Western Europe.

All of their recon and tracking had led them to an abandoned church outside of the city. Romanoff was to surprise him in what used to be the church hall, where he appeared to live, and drive him outside into the churchyard. Barton would be there, perched on the one of the balconies, in case things got out of hand and Romanoff needed assistance incapacitating him for questioning. They knew from their reconnaissance that he favored firearms and generally had at least two weapons with him at all times, and that he tended to travel alone.

Neither of them could have foreseen the turn of events.

Somebody in his inner circle must have tipped him off to SHIELD's presence in the area, and he had been prepared. When Natasha accosted Hasanov, he seemed to have been waiting for her. He had surrounded himself with a dozen of his young victims, putting their bodies between himself and harm. The mission was to capture, not kill; they needed information regarding whether there were other children out there and where they were, otherwise Natasha would have had no problems putting a bullet between his eyes for exploiting children. He had also done something to jam the signal from their comms so that she hadn't heard from Clint, who was presumably still outside the building per the plan.

Hasanov had snarled as she kept her gun trained on him.

"You won't do it," he taunted in Russian. "One move and we all go up in flames." Natasha kept her face steady, eyes trained on him and the assault rifle in his right hand. She tried to tell the children to run. Whether from fear or not understanding her command in Russian or English, they remained rooted to the spot. The oldest looked no older than 11 or 12, and the girl was holding an infant, face stark white. Some of the younger kids were sobbing. One boy clutched a toy to his chest, eyes fixed on Natasha.

"You're not going to kill all these kids," she said, taking another step forward. Still nothing from Clint on comms.

"No? And how can you be sure?"

"Because you want to live," she said. "My orders are to capture, not kill. Let the kids go." He adjusted his grip on the gun.

"Don't come any closer or I will blow us all to hell." Natasha kept her gaze trained on him and the gun. She ignored him and took two more careful steps forward. Her gun was still trained on him, his was not pointed at anything in particular. He noticed her movement and let out a roar, firing a quick round into the ceiling. Chunks of plaster exploded to dust, debris rained down, and a chorus of screams and cries erupted from the children.

" … heard shots, Romanoff, what's … status?" Clint must have realized the comms were compromised, and his voice crackled in and out. "Status, Na … " His voice broke off.

"I said no closer," Hasanov roared, the dim light illuminating the rings around his eyes and the 5 o'clock shadow. Natasha could tell his temper had taken a precarious turn. Keeping her gun on him, she stole a glance at the children. For a fleeting moment her eyes met the scared gaze of the older girl.

"Please go," she said to the kids in Russian. Then, hoping to signal to Clint what was happening without tipping Hasanov off, she repeated the command again in English: "Take the other children and run out straight out the front door. I won't let him shoot you."

Natasha heard Clint mutter "Shit" into his comms at the same time as Hasanov shouted a command to the children in a language Natasha didn't understand, maybe Turkish. The girl who looked like she was about to turn and run instead stood rooted to the spot, still looking afraid.

Natasha kept her focus on the man for several breaths, gaze unbroken, gun trained on him. She took two more steps toward Hasanov before her eyes were drawn to a subtle movement his left hand made and the ensuing fraction of a second seemed to last an era. He had turned an object in his left jacket pocket just slightly enough for her to see the top half-centimeter of a dead-man's switch. She aimed a bullet at the Hasanov's forehead. She couldn't register why her shot had gone off with such a thunderous roar.

Then the world exploded around her.

Clint had left his perch atop the balcony of a building just across the brick road as soon as he heard Natasha mention that children were present. He jumped from the 3rd story balcony, turned to loose an escape arrow which affixed itself to the underside of the balcony, and swung down on the cord before flinging himself forward onto the cobbled street. He made for his partner's last known position on the west side of the building. All at once, the ground gave an ominous rumble and a large section of the wall ahead exploded outward, flames erupting from the gaping hole and licking up the side of the building, chunks of rubble spewing across his path.

"Shit!" he exclaimed for the second time, eyes scanning what he could see inside of the building through the missing chunk of wall. He didn't call out to her from the street, which would risk their cover, but the closer he go to the building, the more he could taste the smoke. Acting quickly, he poured the contents of his canteen down the front of his shirt before yanking the wet cloth up to cover his nose and mouth. The flames roared higher and an ominous creaking noise sounded above him.

The building was going to come down.

Shit.

He squinted through the gaping hole in the side of the building, his eye movements becoming frantic now. Through the settling dust, he caught a glimpse of her boot and, not far away, the curve of her outstretched hand still clutching her gun. He glanced around the building and saw no immediate signs of impending collapse. Clint hurtled over the remaining brick and into the building.

"Natasha," he said with urgency as he approached. "Natasha!" She had smaller pieces of rubble scattered over her body. A large piece of what looked like ceiling tile and several pieces of crumbled brick obscured her face from view. Clint shifted it and noted a large scrape over her forehead but no other signs of damage. A length of rebar, large chunks of concrete still affixed to the sides, pinned her hips to the floor. Clint freed his partner with a grunt of effort and crouched by her head, relieved to feel a pulse thrumming at her neck. A sweeping glance into the rubble and debris did not reveal any further movement or signs of life, the only noise perceptible was the roaring fire and crackling, creaking beams of the building groaning under the stress of the fire. There was no sign in the debris of any other victims.

He positioned himself behind Natasha's head and leaned forward to grasp her jacket at the shoulders, trying his best to keep her neck stabilized with his forearms. He managed to drag her out of the building, kicking rubble out of the way as they went. He did not stop until he spotted a small and unlit alley a hundred yards from the church hall and dragged his partner in, his own lungs burning from the smoke and the effort.

They needed to get out of here before people started showing up. Suddenly, she started coughing and Clint exhaled with relief. She started to sit up but winced. Clint placed an arm behind her shoulderblades and helped.

"Hey, your neck ok?" he asked.

"I think so."

"Good, 'cause we've got to move," he said. He pulled her up and she leaned heavily on him, one of Clint's hands holding her wrist where her arm draped over his shoulder and the other arm supporting her around the waist.

"Clint," she said weakly, "all those kids, did you find—?" She could feel him shaking his head next to her as he steered them into another deserted alley.

"Didn't see any other bodies, living or otherwise." Natasha gave a cough and sniffed, tasting salt and fire at the back of her throat.

Somehow, they covered the mile and a half to a marina on the coast of the Caspian Sea and Clint had half-carried her onto a speedboat. She struggled for breath and balance and was clinging to consciousness. "Hang in there, Romanoff, we're gonna get out of here," he had said, helping her onto a faux leather plush seat next to him. As she attempted to sit and focus on Clint, who was trying to hot-wire the engine to life, her vision faded to gray and then black.

The boat engine purred to life and Clint steered out of the harbor, slowly and quietly at first, then accelerating when the boat was far enough out into the Caspian Sea that the noise wouldn't be as noticeable from shore. He glanced over at his partner and swore under his breath; she was slumped at an odd angle in her seat. He reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

"Romanoff," he said loudly, his voice urgent, but her head remained lolled to the side. He noticed a trickle of blood from her ear, dark in the dim backlighting of the boat's control panel. "Shit. Natasha!" He shook her shoulder harder, snapped his fingers in front of her face, and still received no response. Clint adjusted his grip on the steering rig, shifted his footing, and felt the cool skin of Natasha's neck, relief sweeping through him when he felt the steady pulse of her carotid. He pushed the speed full throttle and reactivated his SHIELD comms device, where it had been sitting silently during their mission to avoid detection.

"This is Barton, reporting on mission status," he said, eyes trained alternately on the shoreline, the compass, and Natasha in turn.

"Barton, we copy. Go ahead with your status report." The voice belonged to Victoria Hand, the level 8 SHIELD Agent who had taken point in coordinating this strike mission from the Triskelion.

"Threats on the ground have been neutralized and we are en route to the rendezvous point, but there were civilian casualties and Romanoff is down. Unconscious but has a pulse and seems to be breathing," Clint said. He kept his voice modulated but his heart was racing as he glanced back at his partner.

"What happened?"

"Got caught in a blast. There was an unexpected suicide bombing, guy had an assault rifle but we didn't know he was strapped with C4. He messed with our comms so I didn't catch the details. Romanoff said something about kids. Looked like Hasanov took down the building and a bunch of innocents along with him." Clint was laying into the accelerator, urging the engine on as fast as it would go.

"Jesus," Hand's voice came across over comms with an audible exhalation. "Alright, hopefully the quinjet is still where you parked it. If you can make it there, the closest safe medical we can guarantee is in Ankara, we'll help clear your airspace and your flight time is just over an hour. Keep us posted."

"Will do, thanks." Clint disconnected the call and looked back over, relieved to find Natasha stirring. She blinked awake in the dim lighting and, ignoring the deafening buzzing in her ears, she tried to sit up.

Almost immediately, the world seemed to be careening off it's axis, swooping around her, and she mustered just enough strength to vomit over the edge of the rail.

"Whoa whoa whoa," Clint started, reaching out a steadying hand. "Take it easy." Natasha spat the remaining sour residue over the edge of the boat and sat back against the seat, panting in spite of herself. She could still taste salt and bile in her throat.

"How long was I out?"

"Maybe 10, 15 minutes," Clint estimated, checking the compass and squinting at the shoreline. He twiddled the steering wheel on the boat. "Passed out just after we go to the boat."

"So we're what, 20 minutes from the quinjet?"

"Yeah, as long as it's where we left it," Clint said. He looked over at her with concern, unable to fully make out her features in the dim lighting. He could see her eyes turned toward him while she sat, still trying to sit upright. She sniffled, and at first he thought she was crying. Something was off, he had never seen her cry with pain. "How are you feeling?"

"I've had better days."

"You let me know if you're going to pass out again, OK? Don't want you falling overboard; that water is cold." He turned to smirk at her, but she was slumped back into her seat, panting, eyes closed. "Natasha?"

"Mmhmm, got it," she mumbled, still concentrating on staying alert.

Once they arrived on shore, Clint had to half carry her out of the boat and by the time they made it to the jet — mercifully, still where they had stowed it on arrival — she'd stopped to vomit twice more. Clint may not have finished high school but he knew vomiting after head injury was not a good sign. Once he had helped her into one of the seats and looked at her properly in the light, Clint saw that she had developed faint purple halos around her eyes. She was alert enough to fasten her own seatbelt, but sniffled again as he turned toward the pilot seat.

"Are you in pain? I have some Motrin here."

"I'm not crying, my nose is just running," she was quick to clarify. Natasha wiped her nose on her hand. No blood. That was good. "But I'll take those painkillers, my head hurts like hell."

"No problem, I'll grab those and we'll be off." It was a sign of how bad she felt that she didn't even ask where they were going or try to protest when Clint mentioned getting medical care.

They landed outside of Ankara and changed into civilian clothes before meeting the prearranged SHIELD car in a semi-remote location. They were briefed on their new temporary aliases, a guise that they had been a vacationing couple who'd been involved in a car crash, before being dropped off at the emergency room of the academic hospital in the city.

One look at Natasha's face and the triage nurse had ushered them back immediately; Clint could see for the first time in good lighting that the bruising around both of her eyes had become a deep and terrifying shade of violet. He would have laughed at how ridiculous she looked if not for the gnawing feeling at his gut that this was much worse than it seemed.

After the initial hurried shuffling of the doctors, nurses, exams, bloodwork, and scans was complete, one of the doctors pulled Clint aside from his post at her bedside the trauma bay. Her neck was now stabilized in a stiff collar and it was a mark of how miserable she felt that she wasn't even struggling against it.

"Your girlfriend has sustained some very serious injuries, she has what's called a basilar skull fracture and a tiny amount of bleeding on the brain, but the most worrisome thing is that she has spinal fluid leaking out of her nose, that's why it has been running." The words were clanging around in Clint's brain. He briefly wondered whether the medical translator was making a series of mistakes. "She will need very close observation, specialized IV fluids and monitoring, and consultation with our neurosurgeons."

"Wait," Clint interjected, feeling slow. He glanced across the room and saw Natasha's eyes trained on them. "Can you explain this more slowly to both of us? She's going to want to hear it from you."

Closed head injury causing a small bleed on the brain (subdural bleeding, a slow bleed, they said), enough trauma to fracture her skull across the base and cause enough of a break in the bone above her nose, which was letting her spinal fluid leak out. Clint thought he might be sick thinking about it, and that was before the doctor added broken ribs, smoke inhalation, broken clavicle, multiple bruises and scrapes from the blast. Natasha's expression remained unreadable throughout. She was admitted to the ICU for observation.

The ICU staff did not leave Natasha to rest until around 3:30 AM, when they felt she was stable enough to be by herself. After making a short series of phone calls in the family waiting room, Clint returned to the room to find his partner with her head elevated at an uncomfortable angle, hooked up to various IV fluid drips and monitors. Her face was an unreadable mask as her gaze followed him back into the room. One of the nurses had left a pillow and blanket on the reclining chair for him. He checked that the sliding glass door was closed before settling into the chair at her bedside. Clint was tucking the pillow under his head when he heard her sniffle again. There were fresh tears tracking down her cheeks, reflecting the glow of the medical monitors.

"How're you holding up there, Romanoff?" he asked in low tones after glancing toward the doors. She took a long pause before answering.

"All those kids —" Her voice broke. "I wasn't fast enough to save a single one of them." Clint rested an outstretched hand on her shoulder, which only seemed to make the tears come faster. He had never seen her cry like this, ever, and suspected that the combination of physical and emotional traumas with pain killers had dismantled her emotional barriers.

"Hey, don't do this to yourself," he said.

"They were all orphans. Nobody is going to mourn them." She sniffed again and raised her arm to wipe her eyes on the back of her hand. "Nobody is going to mourn them."

"We are," Clint said. He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "Try to get some rest, ok?"

Over the next 3 days, Natasha's physical injuries improved. The runny nose stopped without surgery, her headache became less constant, she was cleared from spinal injury, and her bloodwork remained stable. The doctors told her it was a miracle that with the amount of force it took to break her skull so badly, she hadn't also broken her neck or any of the bones in her face. Visions of fire and children's screams haunted her sleep, but she refused to take any sleep aid aside from melatonin. As soon as she was cleared for travel, SHIELD arranged for her airlift to Bethesda to continue recovery there.

Her headaches improved gradually, the vomiting stopped, and she was able to force down every ounce of liquid and every tablet of painkiller, anti-inflammatory, antiemetic, and antibiotic medication that her doctors wanted her to, but she could not muster an appetite no matter how persistently Clint or the nurses tried to goad her. Natasha pushed herself physically to do everything asked of her by the physical therapists, to the point where she was frequently sweating and panting with the pain and effort of exertion by the end of the sessions. Predictably, she completely shut down every time the trauma psychologists came to speak with her; Clint stopped staying overnight at her bedside once they'd returned to the States, but when asked directly she could not hide from him that she still had frequent nightmares from the ordeal.

Victoria Hand, who had run point on the mission, instructed her to lay low, take as much time as she needed to recover, but would not hear of her returning to desk duty for at least a couple more weeks. She would be out of the field even longer than that. Natasha just wanted to throw herself back into work, to try to do something good to soothe her conscience, but even she could not deny the extent of her injuries. Her doctors advised that she not be left alone until she was cleared at a follow up visit in two weeks' time, what with the significant risks of worsening head bleeding, potential meningitis, and supervision of her physical therapy regimen.

"I recommend staying with friends or family if at all possible. That kind of supportive environment will help optimize your recovery," Dr. Polaris, the primary SHIELD physician supervising her recovery, had told her on the day of discharge from Bethesda. She liked Dr. Polaris, a young woman with glossy brown curls and a kind face, but Natasha narrowed her eyes at the suggestion.

"I'll be fine," she argued. "I live at the Triskelion. There are other people around all the time, and all the doctors and therapists are in the same building." Ever since joining SHIELD, Natasha had lived in a studio apartment within the housing complex at the Triskelion. It was more of a home than she'd ever had in her life, and as humble as it was, she was comfortable there. Clint snorted.

"You are not going to get better left to your own devices in that cubicle," he said. "What happens if you fall or something? You'd never call for help."

"How do you know that?"

"Hi, Agent Romanoff," he deadpanned, raising an eyebrow. "I'm Clint Barton, I believe we've met before." She pursed her lips.

"Well, what do you suggest? You can't babysit me forever, Barton. Weren't you planning on going home for vacation anyway?"

He looked at her, pensive. There was a pause.

"I can have a social worker come and talk to you, see if you qualify for any kind of inpatient rehab program?" Dr. Polaris suggested, looking between them. Natasha's expression was stony and Clint shook his head.

"Let me make a phone call," he said, extracting his phone from his pocket and stepping into the hall. He returned 20 minutes later with a triumphant smirk on his face.

That was how after 11 days in the hospital, Natasha was discharged, given time to pack a bag, and found herself on a commercial flight to Kansas City with Barton at her side. It was a miserable flight for her between the pain and the confinement, so she was relieved when the flight attendant finally announced their descent into the city. Clint nudged her with his shoulder.

"Hey," he said in a low voice, "you hanging in there?" She shrugged

"Could be better, could be worse. I'll be happy to move around a bit."

"Yeah," Clint nodded in understanding. "Listen, before we land, I need to talk to you about something. I couldn't say anything before, at SHIELD, too many ears around." He exhaled deeply and looked Natasha squarely in the face. "We are going to my house, to stay with my family." She blinked, unsurprised.

"I thought so."

Clint's eyebrows shot up.

"Wait, I never told you that I was married."

"I excel at getting information out of people without them being aware they are being interrogated. It's part of why SHIELD hired me." She shrugged. "You've never told me specifics, but I've known you long enough to gather that you have a long-term partner and a young child."

Clint was floored.

"Well shit, Natasha," he said, starting to laugh incredulously. "I wish you'd said something before now. Officially, only Fury knows. He helped me to keep my home my family off of SHIELD's files for protection ever since i joined up. Nobody else knows." Natasha looked at him carefully, and could see a mix of urgency and vulnerability in his face.

"My lips are sealed," she said earnestly. He was willing to trust her with the secret of his family, the most precious thing he had, and she would honor it. She owed him this, and so much more. "Tell me about them."

Natasha saw Clint's blue-green eyes light up almost instantly, and she learned that his wife's name was Laura and she was a nurse who worked from home, remotely taking after-hours patient calls for a couple of local family practice offices. She was surprised to hear that he had two small children, not just one. Cooper had turned 3 a few weeks before and was obsessed with everything to do with tractors. Lila was 10 months old and had just started cruising. Laura had sent him a video but he couldn't wait to see in person. They lived on a farm near a town called Lake Viking, not far from the Iowa border. It was perfect, a small town that was large enough to have good internet and access to resources, largely because of summer tourists and a popular art institute located nearby, but was quiet and the people were neighborly.

Once they had deplaned, duffels slung over their shoulders, Clint pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Laura, who was to meet them at the airport. Natasha was uncomfortably aware of the other travelers, far too many of whom stared at her, gazes lingering on her face for longer than was normal. The bruising around her eyes — "Raccoon eyes" was the actual medical term — had faded somewhat, but were still glaringly present. A few of the eyes slipped suspiciously to Clint, walking to her right, and she wondered how many of the passersby suspected her black eyes were from abuse. Natasha breathed with relief when they stepped outside to the curb, a gust of cool spring air with a light rain brushing against her cheeks, but it wasn't long before Clint was waving to the driver of a navy sedan.

"Hey, honey," Clint greeted his wife warmly with a chaste kiss. Laura beamed and wrapped her arms around him before stepping around him toward Natasha.

"Hi, you must be Natasha," she said warmly, approaching her with an outstretched hand. She was very pretty, not beautiful in the conventional fashion model sort of way, but she radiated such warmth and kindness that Natasha couldn't help but smile in return. The two shook hands. "I've heard so much about you from Clint and it's so good to finally meet you. Here, let me get that," she said, taking Natasha's bag and immediately handing it to Clint to stow in the trunk.

"It's nice to meet you, too," Natasha said, and she meant it. "Thank you for having me."

Natasha was exhausted and her head was pounding, so she welcomed the respite that came with riding in the back seat of the car while Clint and Laura chatted up front, catching up as the car sped down the highway, turning onto long, straight country roads. Natasha must have dozed with her head against the window because the next thing she knew, she was startling awake to the noise of car doors opening and closing. She looked up at the two-story white farmhouse, complete with a wide wraparound porch and porch swing. The car was parked now in a patch of packed dirt to the side of the house, now pocked with small, uneven puddles from the light rain. There was a black pickup truck parked alongside. She undid her seatbelt and stepped out of the car. Laura insisted that Clint carry her bag inside and the three of them made their way up the steps and past a purple bicycle to the front door. The screen door creaked open and Laura led the way inside.

"Hey, Mr. Barton! Long time, no see!" A gangly teenage girl with a long, tousled ponytail and artfully ripped jeans greeted, rising from the sofa to meet them. She and Clint briefly exchanged pleasantries while Natasha looked around at the open space. It was furnished exactly like Natasha had expected a farmhouse to be, simple but tasteful touches everywhere, accented by well-loved and sturdy furniture, scattered children's toys, and a modest TV in one corner. Framed photos and sketches covered the walls. A kitchen was visible, cups and plates stacked neatly in an open cupboard and refrigerator covered with calendars and children's drawings.

"Kids down for their naps?" Laura asked. The girl nodded.

"Yep, both went down about half an hour ago. No problems. Cooper colored a picture for you, Mr. Barton, but he wanted to give it to you himself."

"Great, thanks so much for watching them, Julie." Laura withdrew a couple of folded bills from her wallet and handed them to the girl, who had been looking curiously at Natasha.

"Oh, this is my cousin, Natalie," Clint said easily, throwing a brief but meaningful glance at Natasha before addressing the teenager. "Natalie, this is Julie, one of our neighbors. She babysits the kids from time to time." Natasha forced a small smile in greeting.

"Thanks again, Julie," Laura said. "Need a ride back?"

"If you don't mind, that would be great. I'll come back for my bike when it stops raining." Laura smiled at Clint and kissed him again before stepping out again, leaving Clint and Natasha alone in the entryway of the house. Natasha blinked at him.

"Your cousin Natalie?" He shrugged, looking almost sheepish.

"Yeah, Laura's idea. The town is pretty small and everyone talks. It seemed like the best cover." She nodded. Smart. Nobody asked too many questions when a relative came to stay.

"C'mon, let me show you the rest of the house."

Clint took her on a short tour. The kitchen was small but functional and bright, a sturdy, scrubbed wooden table and chairs sat nearby atop a braided rug in shades of red, orange, and yellow. A sliding door off the kitchen led out to a back deck with a picnic table, cluttered with several pairs of rubber boots, a grill, some children's toys and assorted garden tools. The office was near a full bathroom and a guest room down a hall off of the formal dining room, and a creaky set of wooden stairs led upstairs to 3 more bedrooms and another bathroom, rooms belonging to Clint, Laura, and the kids. Clint opened the door to what Natasha thought was a linen closet but turned out to be a second, somewhat uneven, staircase to a third landing containing a bathroom and another large guest bedroom. Natasha turned on the second landing to look out a small circular window through which she could see rolling acres of farmland and trees beyond partly veiled by the misty rain.

"This place is incredible, Clint," she breathed softly. He grinned.

"Thanks. It's my favorite place in the world," he said honestly, still smiling. "Come on, Laura and I were thinking it would be best for you to take the room on the main floor, to limit the stairs. Also there's something weird with the plumbing in the bathroom up here, Laura thinks Cooper may have stuck play-doh down the shower drain again." They made their way back downstairs just as car headlights swept past the windows. Laura was back. Clint picked Natasha's bag up from the floor and led her to the back of the house where the bedroom was located, depositing the duffel atop the bed. Natasha looked at the quilt, which looked handmade, and ran her fingers gently over the intricately patterned squares in shades of blue and white.

This place was truly more of a home than anywhere she had ever lived. Every corner of the place seemed welcoming, and these thoughts stirred up some fresh doubts.

"Are you sure about this, Barton?" she asked. "Are you sure Laura is okay with my being here? You know I'm not exactly citizen of the year."

"Listen, not gonna lie, Laura took some convincing, but she knows how few people from my life at SHIELD know about this place and my family. She knows that my trust isn't earned easily, and she probably still has some small doubts, but ultimately she trusts my judgment and I trust you around my family."

She stared at him, speechless.

It was the biggest compliment she had ever received.

\---------------------------

I hope you've enjoyed this first installment. Part 2 should be posted in the next few days.

Any and all feedback is encouraged.

Thanks for reading, y'all!


End file.
